


Reprieve

by whispered_story



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Fluff, M/M, Stanford Era, au elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 14:57:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8849377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: Sam leaves for Stanford. It doesn't take long for Dean to follow him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwoBoys2Love](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwoBoys2Love/gifts).



> Beta'd by the lovely [dancing_adrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancing_adrift)!
> 
> Written for [TwoBoys2Love](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwoBoys2Love/pseuds/TwoBoys2Love) for [spn_j2_xmas](http://spn-j2-xmas.livejournal.com/)'s Secret Santa Gift Exchange. Happy holidays!

They're both silent.

Outside, it's already dark and raining, the wheels of the Impala loud on the wet pavement, the drops splattering steadily against the windshield. 

Dean is clenching his jaw hard enough for it to start hurting, his heart feeling heavy in his chest. He knew this day was coming, but he tried hard not to think about it, to pretend the letter he found in Sam's room weeks ago wasn't real. 

Sam is quiet too, staring out the passenger side window. His face is pinched, mouth set, but his eyes are a little puffy, his skin a little too pale. He's hurting too, and it makes Dean feel both better and worse.

When they get to the bus station, Dean cuts the engine and feels his stomach lurch. He clears his throat and Sam shifts next to him.

"Thanks, Dean," he says, voice soft, fragile.

Dean gives a short nod. He reaches inside the pocket of his jacket and pulls out the wad of bills he stuffed there right before leaving, his winnings of several nights of hustling people at pool, carefully put aside for this. For Sam. "Here," he says, shoving the money at Sam. "For the bus ticket."

"I have money," Sam replies, but he takes the money. "And I know you've been on a greyhound, Dean, but it's really not _that_ expensive."

Dean smiles wryly and shrugs. "Well, it's for whatever else you might need, too," he says. "You can't exactly go hustle in bars if you don't plan on leaving town sooner or later."

"I got a full ride, you know."

"I know," Dean says, and can't help the pride that blooms in his chest for a short moment. "Use it to get you started. I bet there's still some stuff you need to buy. And I hear college students go out and party a lot, and there'll be a whole campus of girls to hook up with. Gotta pay for booze and condoms somehow, Sammy."

"You're gross," Sam mutters, but his lips are tugged up just a little. He puts the money in the pocket of his own jacket, zipping it up, and then runs a hand down his thigh, glancing out of the car window again. "So."

Dean's heart thuds a little harder, more painfully. Time to say goodbye.

"Take care of yourself out there, Sammy. Okay?" he says, trying to keep his tone light, make this easier. For him or Sam, he doesn't know. "Don't get in trouble without me around to save your sorry ass."

Sam laughs, the sound a little wet, broken. He scoots closer and pulls Dean into a hug, quick and tight. The angle is awkward, but Dean doesn't care. It's the last hug he'll get for a while, maybe forever, and he suddenly wishes he'd done this more often, enjoyed having Sam close by while he could. 

"I mean it, Sam," he murmurs. "You stay safe, okay?"

Sam pulls back, nodding. "I think I need to be more worried about you, anyway."

"Nah, I'm awesome," Dean boasts, attempting to grin. It's hard to pull off though, because Sam is looking at him like a kicked puppy. Dean nudges him. "Go before your bus takes off without you, bitch."

Sam nods again, and then, before Dean realizes what Sam is doing, he leans in and kisses Dean. It only last a couple of seconds, Sam's lips soft against his, before he draws back. He doesn't meet Dean's eyes, just opens the car door and slides out. "Bye," he says, so soft Dean barely hears it and than tags on, "Jerk."

The car door slamming shut sounds impossibly loud. Dean sits, silent, lips tingling. Sam gets his duffel bag from the trunk and leaves without looking back. Dean watches him walk away, duck into the building, his shoulders hunched, head low.

+

The house they've been staying in for the last few weeks is quiet when Dean gets there.

The porch squeaks under his boots, louder than Dean remembers, and he has to lean heavily against the front door to get it to open, wiggling the key around. He feels heavy, his heart, his limbs, his head, like something is physically weighing him down.

Dean gets a beer from the fridge, but he can't stomach more than a few sips. He leaves it on the counter by the sink, open and mostly untouched. Sam won't be around in the morning to bitch him out for always leaving a mess behind anyway.

It's still early, but Dean goes to bed anyway. He doesn't want to stay up, run into John. He feels angry—with him, with Sam, with himself, the whole entire world—and he just wants to forget. 

Sam's been gone for a few hours, and Dean already misses him.

+

Dean barely gets any sleep that night.

John comes back late, slams the door hard enough to rattle the entire house, and Dean just lies in his bed and stares at the dark ceiling. He worries where Sam is now, if he made it onto the bus okay, if he's having trouble sleeping, too. 

With the exception of the two weeks Sam ran away to Flagstaff, Dean has never not known where Sam was spending the night, which bed he was sleeping in. The windows and doors were always salted, sigils for protection keeping Sam safe.

Now Sam is on some bus, somewhere Dean has never been, somewhere he can't control what happens to Sam, and it makes Dean's stomach clench painfully. He keeps checking his phone, pretending he's just looking at the time and not checking to see if he somehow, inexplicably, missed a call or text from Sam.

+

He drifts off eventually, in the early hours of the morning, but even his dreams are about Sam. A confusing mess of Sam leaving, vanishing, and the feel of his soft, pink lips against Dean's.

He's up again after just a few hours, feeling like he didn't sleep at all. The first thing he does is look at his phone, but there's nothing there. No word from Sam, good or bad.

+

John is in the kitchen, sitting at the small table there, when Dean comes downstairs. Neither of them say anything and Dean goes and pours himself a coffee. He drinks it standing up, eyes fixed on the ground before him.

Eventually, John clears his throat. "I found a new case," he says.

"Great," Dean replies, tone devoid of all emotion. He doesn't ask where or how, doesn't ask if this is what John was doing last night, looking for the next hunt while Dean felt like someone had ripped out his heart and stomped on it. 

"Dean," John prompts, voice firm. Dean knows the tone and he looks up.

"Yes, sir?"

"I can handle the case on my own."

Dean presses his lips together, tries to breathe calmly for a moment. "Is there something else you need me to do?" he finally asks.

John sighs and gives Dean a smile that's more of a grimace. "I actually expected you to be on the road to California already."

"What?"

John gets up, picking his dishes up and dropping them into the sink. "It's not safe for Sam to be out there on his own."

"You want me to go?" Dean asks, and he sounds so stupidly hopeful he hates himself a little.

"Someone has to look out for your brother," John says. "It's your job, Dean. Always has been."

"Yes, sir," Dean says, standing up a little straighter. It may sound like an order, but he knows it's not. It's permission. 

"Thank you," he adds, quieter, softer.

+

Dean drives to California with the windows rolled down and music blaring.

The passenger seat feels weird empty, wrong, but Dean feels lighter than he has in weeks, since the day he found the letter.

+

"My idiot little brother has his phone turned off and he forgot to tell me his room number," Dean says, smiling sweetly at the girl at the admissions desk. It's the third dorm building he is checking on the campus in Palo Alto. "I have a couple of boxes of his stuff in my car."

He gets Sam's room number and the girl's phone number, and he saunters off with a grin and a promise to call her that he doesn't intend on keeping. 

Sam's expression when he opens the door for Dean makes Dean wish he had a camera. He looks stunned, mouth hanging open and eyes wide as he takes him in. But then Dean looks a little closer and sees Sam's eyes are rimmed red, like he's been crying, and his skin looks pasty.

"Dean?" Sam asks, like he isn't sure what he's seeing. "What are you doing here?"

"You didn't call. I had to make you hadn't been killed yet," Dean replies. "Are you gonna let me in or what?"

Sam steps aside. "I left two days ago," he says, and Dean grins at the face he's making. It's the one that says he thinks Dean is being an annoying ass, and it makes Dean feel giddy, makes him want to prod and tease until Sam gets all huffy and starts bitching him out.

"Getting killed usually doesn't take that long, Sammy," Dean says.

"It’s Sam," Sam mutters, and Dean flops down on the bed that has Sam's laptop sitting on it. "You're an idiot."

"No, you are," Dean says. "Which is why I'm here. Someone's gotta look out for your perky little butt and keep it safe."

"Stop talking about my butt," Sam says. He leans against one of the two desks in the room, eyes fixed firmly on Dean. "And I don't need a bodyguard. You seen anyone else on campus walk around with their big brother hovering behind them?"

"No," Dean says, shrugging. "Goes to show that I'm the best big brother there is."

"Dean."

"What?"

"How long are you here for?"

Dean tries to look causal, taking a look around the room with a small shrug. The place is small, smaller than even the rooms they had to share over the years, and Sam's roommate has already left a mess behind on his side of the room, clothes and books scattered around. Sam probably already hates him and the thought makes Dean feel a little better. "Indefinitely."

Sam pauses. "Are you kidding?" he asks after a few moments, but he doesn't sound mad. Hopeful, maybe.

"No."

"What are you going to do? Where the hell are you going to live?" Sam asks. "And _why_?"

"Told you why. And I haven't really figured the rest out yet. I can find some job somewhere, I guess, rent a room somewhere close by or something."

Sam runs a hand through his hair, making it look even messier. His face has taken on some color now, cheeks a little flushed. "Dean. You can't just… " he starts and gestures with his hands, like he doesn't know what to say.

"What? Last time I checked this is a free country and I can live wherever the hell I want to, so you can't stop me, Sammy," Dean interjects before Sam can argue with him. "So save your breath. And let's go out and find some place to eat."

+

Dean talks Sam into going out to a college bar that night.

"You need to meet people," he says while Sam frowns and finds a clean shirt to wear. "You can't be a creepy loner who never leaves his room. Those guys end up going crazy eventually, Sammy."

The guy at the door of the bar they pick barely glances at Sam's ID, before nodding and letting them in. Inside, it's loud and crowded with students, most of them a little older, but Dean has no doubt at least half of them are underage. Some crappy pop song is playing over the speakers.

"This must be heaven for you, all these college girls," Sam snarks as they make their way to the bar, nudging people aside. To Dean's right a girl cries out loudly and throws herself at another girl, hugging her. 

"Oh my god, I haven't seen you all summer, how are you? You look amazing!" she gushes, voice loud and high and her enthusiasm is reciprocated by her friend. Dean turns to look at Sam and makes a face.

"They're... bubbly," he says. Sam snorts, but looks mollified. Dean grabs him by the arm and continues to drag him the last few feet to the bar.

They order drinks and Dean leans back against the wooden counter once he has a beer in hand, scanning the crowd. He sees a few girls glancing their way, checking them out, and he smiles at them, but it's innocent, friendly instead of flirty. 

"You know, I think I prefer the crappy bars we usually hang out in," he says.

Sam takes a sip of his beer and grins. "Couldn't have guessed."

"What? You think I don't fit in with the college crowd, kiddo?"

"Means your ears are probably hurting," Sam replies and cuffs Dean's leather boots with his sneakers. "Seriously, should I be worried?"

Dean grimaces. "The music is really crappy," he admits. "But hey, there's booze and apparently this is college life, Sammy. You gotta fit in with your peers."

"The hell I do," Sam says, and Dean grins.

"Look at you, you barely made it here and you're already rebelling," Dean replies and smirks. "That's the Sammy I know, sulky and broody and hating everything."

Sam rolls his eyes. "You're so stupid, Dean," he says. Dean finishes off his beer, grinning around the top of the bottle. He turns to put it on the counter, hoping to catch the attention of the bartender right away to order another, when he notices the girl standing a few feet away from them. She's cute, young, and stealing glances at Sam from under her lashes. Sam, who has turned around with him, catches his eyes and then looks around the room, swift and casual, the way he does when he's checking the perimeter during hunts. Dean has no doubt the girl's quick, hopeful smile doesn't escape his attention. He reaches out and rests his hand on the small of Sam's back, the gesture casual yet possessive.

"Wanna do shots?" he asks, keeping his tone light.

Sam shifts a little closer. "Sure," he agrees. "If you buy."

Dean nods and keeps his hand where it is for a few moments longer. They're standing just a little too close, leaning into each other a little too much, Sam's body heat too much in the already warm bar, but Dean doesn't pull away.

+

They head back to Dean's motel room at the end of the night, Sam claiming he'd rather crash with Dean than go back to his dorm.

"My roommate's a little weird anyway," he says, and Dean feels a little alarmed instantly.

"Weird?"

Sam sighs and nudges Dean as they walk from the Impala to Dean's room. "Not like that. Not our kind of weird," he says. "Just don't think we'll be best friends."

"Okay. But you’ll tell me if anything seems off, right?" Dean unlocks the door to his room and lets them in, glancing back at Sam.

Sam rolls his eyes, not looking even a little sheepish when Dean catches him doing it. 

"Yes, Dean," he says, his tone placating. Dean shoots him a look, but decides to let it go for now. He can look into Sam's roommate tomorrow and make sure the guy is human, not some monster who will kill Sam in his sleep. And not an asshole who Dean needs to have a serious conversation with about how Sam is to be treated either.

Sam sits down on Dean's bed—the only one in the room—and kicks his shoes off.

"You okay with sharing a bed with me?" Dean asks, sliding his leather jacket off and tossing it onto the chair in the corner. 

"Not like it'd be the first time."

"Not since you shot up and turned into an overgrown sasquatch," Dean points out. He gets a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and joins Sam on the bed.

"Whatever, tiny," Sam replies and grabs the bottle.

Dean flicks one of Sam's ears, grinning when Sam flinches away. "Just don't kick me in your sleep and steal my covers."

"I never do that," Sam retorts. 

"Oh, yeah, never. Not you," Dean says, watching Sam uncap the water and take a few big gulps. "I used to wake up freezing and with bruised shins."

"All lies," Sam says and smiles innocently, handing Dean the now half-empty bottle. It's kind of hard to argue with Sam when he's looking at Dean like that, looking all tipsy and happy. Dean's always been a bit of a pushover when it comes to Sam—they can fight and bicker for hours, but one of those sweet, dimpled smiles and Dean's resolve usually weakened. It's even harder now that Dean has actually felt those lips against his, now that Sam has gone there, crossed that line.

And damn it if Sam's smile doesn't get a little brighter when Dean doesn't have a good comeback.

+

Dean checks the salt lines while Sam borrows his toothbrush to get ready for bed. Sam is one of those people who refuses to go to bed if he hasn't brushed his teeth, even when he's drunk or hurt. Even when it means he has to use Dean's toothbrush apparently, though Dean would bet that Sam will regret that decision in the morning when he's sober and less care-free.

He strips down to his t-shirt and boxer-briefs and then gets into bed. He holds the sheets up when Sam finally comes to join him, grinning as he crawls into bed with Dean.

"All minty fresh and squeaky clean?" he asks.

Sam rubs his cheek against the pillow and pulls the sheets higher around him, the way he's always done when he gets into bed, and grins. "Yup," he says.

"Good," Dean says. Sam doesn't stop smiling at him and nudges a foot against Dean's, pressing between them. He looks young, cute, with his messy hair falling in his face, no traces left of the sulky, unhappy teenager Dean has gotten so used to over the last few years. 

"What?" Sam asks. Dean reaches for him, cupping Sam's cheek in his palm and rubbing his thumb over the smooth, soft skin. Sam's eyes flutter closed for a moment and he tilts his face up into the touch just the tiniest bit.

Dean leans in and kisses him. It's soft, just a brush of lips against lips, not much different than the kiss Sam gave him right before he left. 

"Dean," Sam says. Dean doesn't quite know if it's a plea or a prompt or a question and he doesn't quite want to think about it in that moment. So he kisses Sam again, a little firmer, a little longer, and then pulls back.

"Good night, college boy," he says and then reaches over Sam's shoulder for the lamp on the nightstand, switching it off. He settles back down and Sam scoots closer, curling up against him.

+

They wake up tangled together and a little sweaty, the sun filtering in through the window and the shared body heat just this side of uncomfortable.

Dean yawns and stretches, careful not to jostle Sam too much and Sam makes an unhappy noise, burrowing closer to Dean.

"It's too damn warm," Dean says, but he slides his arm around Sam, running his hand down Sam's spine.

"'s nice," Sam replies, voice all sleepy and husky. Dean hums in agreement, nuzzling Sam's hairline and placing a kiss to his temple. It feels good, having Sam this close, being able to touch him so freely. 

"Are we gonna talk about this?" Sam asks.

"'Bout what?"

Sam pulls back a little, looking at Dean. His eyes are a little puffy from sleep and there's a pillow crease on his cheek and Dean just barely resists the urge to pull Sam closer and really kiss him, until they're both breathless.

"This," Sam says, gesturing between them, the space that is barely there. "What we're doing."

"Sam," Dean says and groans. 

"It's not an unreasonable question, Dean," Sam points out. "I'd just like to know what this is, what to expect."

"You know, you've always been like this. Since you were a little kid—always wanted to talk, know everything about everything," Dean says, not unkindly. It used to annoy him, still does sometimes, but he knows Sam is the kind of person who needs this. Needs to talk and vent and get things off his chest, because it's how he deals with things. He's gotten quieter over the years, withdrawn, has tried to bottle his feelings up the way Dean and John do. But eventually it always got too much and everything would bubble over, usually resulting in an angry screaming match with John.

"You can't always not talk about things and just brush them off," Sam says, a furrow forming on his forehead, showing the beginning of his building frustration. Dean reaches out, thumbs the line in attempt to smooth it out.

"I know, okay? It's just… do we have to do this now? Can't we just lie in bed and enjoy this for a little while?" he asks. Sam shrugs, his face relaxing a little again.

"It's just… confusing," he admits quietly.

"This?"

"Yeah. I mean, isn't it for you?" Sam asks. "I've been trying to work this out for years, been trying to deal with how I felt about you. And you must have known, right? God, sometimes I thought _everyone_ knew, that it was impossible to hide. The way I looked at you and wanted to be close to you. The way I hated every girl you dated. I kinda assumed… that you were pretending you didn't know for my sake. To make things easier for me, for us. And it was really screwing with me, because I tried not to have feelings for you, but I couldn't stop."

"Sammy," Dean murmurs and slides his hand back into Sam's hair, carefully carding through the strands. "I didn't know. Not really. And I wouldn't have just ignored you if I'd known."

"I just… thought you'd be disgusted."

"Then why'd you kiss me?"

Sam sighs and turns onto his back, pulling the sheets with him. He stares at the ceiling and licks his lips. The thin film of moisture makes his lips look pinker, a little poutier, and Dean wants to lick Sam's spit away, trace Sam's mouth with his own tongue. 

"Dad was mad. And you were mad," Sam says, turning his face towards Dean again. "So… well, after the fight I kinda thought I wouldn't be seeing you for a while. That I wasn't welcome back. I kinda thought I didn't have anything to lose and I just… wanted to know what it was like. I wanted to kiss you at least once."

Sam shrugs, looking helpless and lost and so damn young. Dean sometimes forgets how young Sam is—he might tease him for being a sulky teenager, but Sam has never really acted like someone his age. Too smart, too serious, too fucking jaded by the things they've seen and done, and god knows Sam can be kinda terrifying with a weapon in his hand, when he wants to be. But he's still this too: Dean's little brother, who he wants to tuck away from the world and keep safe, because underneath it all, Sam is still vulnerable, so easy to hurt if you only know how to. And goddamn if he's Dean's Achilles heel.

"I wasn't _mad_. Just upset that you were leaving," Dean says. 

"And you really didn't know? That I had feelings for you?" Sam asks. Dean scoots even closer, places a careful kiss against Sam's jaw while sliding his arm back around him.

"No. I sometimes thought I noticed something. Thought there was something there, but then I thought I was probably just seeing things. Projecting or whatever."

Sam's eyes widen a little. "Projecting?"

"Well, if you think I wasn't looking right back at you, you really are in idiot," Dean says and smirks a little, earning him a little huff from Sam.

"So you're not just doing this to…" 

"To what, Sammy?" 

"I don't know. Make me happy. Or because I left. Because you didn't want to lose me. I'm not stupid, I know you. It wouldn't be the first time you did something you didn't want to just to make me happy." 

"That so?" Dean asks, more curious than upset at what Sam is implying. 

"I know how many times you stayed behind with me when you really wanted to go hunting with dad. Always let me have the last food when we were running low. Hell, you've gotten hurt more times than I can count jumping in front of some monster to protect me," Sam says.

"Those things are a little different than hooking up with you to make you happy," Dean says. He slides his hand under the hem of Sam's t-shirt, palming his side and watching the way Sam squirms a little. "You're a pain in my ass, Sam. You're a little bitch and you nag and you push me until I give in, and yeah, maybe there's a lot of stuff I'd be willing to do for you, but this isn't one of them." 

"Promise?" Sam asks and turns into him.

"I'm here, doing this, because I want it," Dean says firmly. "I made it one fucking day without you before I followed you and that should tell you something. And if you think I haven't been looking back at you for a long time, you're an idiot." 

"Okay," Sam says softly and gives Dean a shaky smile. "See, talking isn't that hard." 

Dean snorts. "Yeah. But I think we're done with this talking bullshit for a while now," he says and pulls Sam closer, leaning down to catch Sam's mouth in a kiss. It's not like the soft, dry kisses they've shared before. It's deep and real and when Sam parts his lips under Dean's with a soft sigh, Dean is pretty sure he's never felt anything more amazing.

+

Sam's classes start and Dean starts feeling bored really quickly.

He doesn't tell Sam, but he misses hunting a little. Knowing he's out there, doing something good, helping people. The thrill of a hunt, the rush that comes with wrapping up a case. He misses being on the road, the feeling of freedom that comes with speeding down an empty highway, music blaring and Sam beside him, nose buried in a book. 

He thinks about taking Sam somewhere for a weekend. Not a hunt, but just driving somewhere and back. But he doesn't want to rip Sam right out of the life he's trying to build, either; he wants Sam to go out, make friends, have the whole college experience the way Dean has seen in movies. 

So Dean starts looking for a job instead, something to occupy himself and bring in some money before his meager savings start running out.

There isn't much for someone like him, with no real qualifications or skills other than hunting monsters, but after a few days of searching he comes across a local garage looking for someone to help out part-time. Dean might not be a professional, but he knows more about cars than some mechanics he's met and he feels a little smug when he gets the job with little trouble.

+

"Just seeing me pull up in the Impala had the guy gaping," Dean says, biting into his sandwich.

He’s met up with Sam for lunch on campus, the way he does most days, and they're sprawled out on the lawn, soaking in the sun. 

"I swear, Sammy," Dean continues, words muffled before he swallows, "he would have hired me even if I was crap, just to get to ogle Baby when I come in to work."

"Well, that's not weird at all," Sam says, lips quirked up into a small smile.

"Weird? That's totally understandable. I mean, have you seen my car?"

"I lived in it for about eighteen years, stupid," Sam says.

"That was a rhetorical question, stupider," Dean shoots back, grinning. He rips some grass out and tosses it at Sam, who splutters a little and brushes it off him, face scrunched up.

"Dude, some of that got into my food."

" _Dude_ , how's that different from the rabbit food you normally eat anyway?"

Sam sticks his tongue out and Dean is a second away from pulling Sam into a headlock, ruffling his hair in the way Sam hates and will result in Sam glaring and bitching Dean out, when someone calls out Sam's name.

They both look up. A guy is jogging up to them, giving a small wave and a smile. 

"Hey Sam," he says once he's a bit closer. He's shorter than both him and Sam, with short blond hair, a deep tan, and the whitest, straightest teeth Dean has ever seen. 

"Hey," Sam replies.

"I'm glad I ran into you. I wanted to ask if you wanted to come out with me and a couple of my friends," the guy says. "There's this frat party tonight. Not usually my thing, but it's supposed to be crazy. What do you say?"

"Oh," Sam says and glances at Dean. "I don't really like huge parties. And I kinda had plans."

The guy finally looks at Dean now, too, curious. Dean gives him his best cocky grin.

"Sorry, dude. Me and Sammy were gonna hang out and chill," he says. It's not completely true, because they never made any plans, but it's what they usually do and Dean doubts tonight is any different. Dean doesn't want Sam to not go out, party and have a good time, but this guy kinda rubs him the wrong way. And yeah, maybe it's because the guy is kinda good-looking, in a California surfer dude kinda way.

"Sorry. Dean, this is Tom, he lives across the hall from me," Sam introduces. "Tom, this is my… Dean."

Tom looks a little confused at that, mouth quirked up into a small smile, before he nods at Sam. "Right. Okay," he says. "Well, let me know if you change your mind."

"Yeah, sure," Sam agrees, but Dean already knows he won't. He waits until Tom says goodbye and leaves before he turns to Sam and grins.

"Your Dean, huh? That's cute, Sammy," he teases. "I bet you have my name doodled all over your notes with little hearts around it."

"Oh, shut up," Sam mutters and nudges Dean with his elbow, digging into Dean's arm a little harder than necessary until Dean has no choice but to pull away.

+

Working at the garage is more fun than Dean anticipated. Working on cars is usually something that Dean does when he wants to de-stress, to do something to take his mind off other things. Getting to do it now and get paid for it is a pretty sweet deal.

Marty, the garage owner, is a pretty relaxed, older dude, who just seems happy to have Dean there so he can take a couple of days a week off and spend them with his wife. Dean's other two co-workers, José and Dylan, are pretty cool, too, and it doesn't take long before Dean gets a beer or two with them at the end of the day once in a while. José likes to tell stories about his little girl and Dean finds himself not minding listening to them, while Dylan is a beautiful, tall redhead with a snark to rival Dean's own.

Dean doubts they'll be friends for life, but Sam usually stays in the dorms during the week, studying and doing homework, and Dean gets kinda bored. It's nice to hang out with people for a few hours before going back to the motel room to watch TV, before going to bed.

+

In late September, Dean finally gets a small apartment. There's some furniture there, but Sam and he buy a couple of shelves and a mattress.

Sam buys him a cactus, too. Mostly because he's a little shit and thinks Dean can't keep anything else alive, but Dean still thinks it's kinda nice. Prickly, sure, but Dean can't remember them ever owning a plant, ever.

"I should leave a couple of changes of clothes and a toothbrush here," Sam says when they settle onto the mattress. It's thick and comfortable and smells new, and Dean likes it more than he would ever be willing to admit.

"You plan on staying here a lot?" he asks and wraps an arm around Sam's waist, tugging him closer against him. He ducks his head down, kissing Sam's neck, working his way down. Worming his free hand around Sam's neck, he buries his fingers in the silky strands of Sam's hair, tugging at it a little.

"Well, I don't have to if you don't want me here…" Sam trails off. He sounds a little distracted already and Dean grins against his skin when Sam tilts his head to the side, allowing Dean better access to his neck.

"I think," Dean starts, words muffled, and slides his hand down to palm Sam's ass, "I kinda like you being here."

"Kinda," Sam echoes. He cups Dean's neck, holding him in place, and rocks his hips forward. Dean feels the outline of his cock, not quite hard yet, but Dean knows it's not going to take much. 

Things between them have been evolving quickly. It's slower than what Dean is used to, but that's because they never stayed in one place long enough for him to take his time, and it's _Sam_. Sam is different, special, and Dean has been trying not to rush things, to give them both the time to adjust and get comfortable with this. He wants Sam, though, more than he's ever wanted anyone else, and he can tell Sam has been getting more and more desperate. Their make-out sessions are getting dirtier, heavier, quickly progressing.

Dean grips Sam's ass a little harder, kneading the firm cheeks, and Sam moans. He thrusts forward, the movement sudden and a bit sloppy, and Dean nuzzles his neck, shifting them around a little so the angle makes it easier for them to move. "You want?" he asks, and slides his hand down to the leg of Sam's boxer-briefs, working his finger just under the hem of the fabric.

Sam's skin there is smooth and warm, the curve of where his butt and thigh meet in a perfect slope. 

"Yes, _please_ ," Sam says. 

Dean pulls back just enough to be able to see Sam's face. He wants to ask Sam if he's sure, but the determined expression on Sam's face tells him everything he needs to know. 

Dean has to get up to get lube and condoms from the bathroom, and by the time he comes back Sam is naked, his legs splayed and finger working between his cheeks. He's not pushed it in, just rubbing against him, looking both turned on and a little embarrassed. It's still the hottest thing Dean has ever seen. He strips out of his boxer-briefs and t-shirt and joins Sam, wasting no time to replace Sam's finger with his.

He knows Sam has never been with a guy, just experimented with his own fingers a little, and Dean makes sure to use plenty of lube as he opens Sam up. His hole is hot and incredibly tight, even when Dean has worked his way up to three fingers, but Sam doesn't seem to feel any discomfort. As Dean crooks his fingers inside of him, pushes them in and out in an imitation of what's to come, Sam rocks his hips up and down, writhing on the sheets. He's flushed, lips parted in a soft 'o', all traces of his previous shyness gone as moans and whimpers spill freely from his mouth.

"Ready for more?" Dean asks. His own dick is hard and wet with precome, curved up against his stomach. He pulls his fingers out and ducks down, kisses Sam's belly, his sternum as he blindly feels around for the condoms he dropped onto the mattress earlier.

"Dean," Sam says, and Dean looks up.

"What, Sammy?" he asks and runs his hand up Sam's side, fingers tacky with lube. Sam tugs him up, pulls him into a messy kiss, their dicks sliding together between their stomachs. 

"Can I ride you?" Sam mumbles against Dean's mouth.

"Fuck," Dean groans and pulls back. Sam is grinning, eyes glinting with mischief. "Fuck _yes_."

Dean grabs Sam by the hips, carefully rolling them over. Sam huffs out a soft laugh, wiggling until he's straddling Dean, long legs splayed around him, hands on Dean's stomach as he finds his balance. Dean can't take his eyes off him—Sam's creamy, smooth skin and perfectly toned body, the messy hair that's falling into his eyes, the dimples in his cheeks and spit-slicked lips. He's a little flushed and his cock is curved up, tip smeared with wet precome, and even his dick is prettier than any other Dean has ever seen. It makes a mess of feelings bloom in his chest—love and want and possessiveness. Sam is _his_ , has been his since for as long as Dean can remember, but now this is Dean's too—Sam all naked and turned on, wanton.

And the little grin on Sam's lips tells Dean he knows exactly what Dean is thinking, too, what he's doing to Dean. 

He reaches for the condom, tearing the foil packet open as he scoots down, perching on Dean's thighs. Taking the base of Dean's cock in his hand, Sam starts rolling the latex over it, a look of concentration on his face that is both endearing and oddly hot. Sam's touch is enough to make heat pool in Dean's stomach, and he reaches down to where Sam's hand is, curling his fingers on top and squeezing himself. 

"What?" Sam asks, and Dean huffs.

"Don't want this to be over too soon," he admits, and Sam's eyes get a little wider, smile a little bigger.

"Oh," he says, and Dean can tell he's pleased by the revelation. Pleased that he's driving Dean crazy. 

Sam grabs the lube next, pouring some onto his hand, and wraps it around Dean's cock again, giving him a few strokes. "That enough?" he asks.

Dean's hips twitch up, into Sam's hand. "'s good," he murmurs. "Come on."

Sam nods eagerly and wipes his hand on the sheets as he gets up onto his knees and shuffles forward. He positions himself over Dean's cock, lower lip caught between his teeth. Dean holds himself, watches Sam as he slowly sinks down, his dick sliding between Sam's cheeks. It takes a few tries, some shifting, until the head of his cock nudges firmly against Sam's hole.

"Relax, okay?" Dean says. Sam meets his eyes, holds his gaze, and starts to sink down. Dean feels the pressure, the resistance of Sam's body, but Sam keeps going until the tip of Dean's cock breaches him. He sinks down lower, tight, wet heat engulfing Dean and making him moan and Sam gasp. Dean's hands shoot out to grab Sam's thighs, eyes searching Sam's face. His body is tense, expression tight.

"Slow. Slow, Sammy," he says. Sam gives a shaky nod.

"Hurts more than I thought," he admits, his voice strained. Dean rubs his thighs comfortingly, tries to focus on Sam instead of how incredible he feels around him, how he wants nothing more than to push up and bury himself in Sam's body.

"Give it a moment," he murmurs. Sam nods again and lets out a breath. Slowly, after a few moments, some of the tension drains from his body. Dean squeezes his thighs a little, and Sam gives him a small smile.

He shifts, pulling up a little, and then carefully lowers himself again, letting Dean slide in a little deeper. 

"Yeah. Like that," Dean encourages. Sam feels amazing around him, and Dean feels sparks of pleasure as Sam slowly works himself down, taking Dean in a little deeper every time.

By the time Sam is fully seated, they're both panting. Sam already looks completely fucked out, sweaty and flushed, spots of color high on his cheeks, his mouth parted. He braces himself on Dean's stomach, the muscles of his thighs flexing under Dean's palms as he lifts up and then sinks all the way down again, moaning softly.

"Good?" Dean asks, and Sam nods, repeating the movement once, twice. He takes it slow at first, like he's testing out how it feels, but then he gets a little bolder, faster, fucking himself on Dean's cock. 

"Yeah, god yeah, Sammy. So good," Dean pants. Sam's still tight, incredibly so, but Dean slides easily in and out now, and the last tension has ebbed out of Sam. Experimentally, Dean rocks his hips up, meeting Sam's thrust as he pushes down on him and the way Sam arches, a loud moan spilling from his lips, is the hottest thing Dean has ever seen in his life. The heat in the pit of his stomach is intensifying, his balls already feeling tight, pleasure spiking higher.

Dean plants his feet on the mattress, moving his body with Sam's now, fucking up into him and reveling in the sounds he's drawing from Sam, the way Sam is writhing and squirming on top of him, completely lost in his own pleasure. 

The noises he's making are getting louder, faster, little punched out "Ah, ah, _ah_ "s. 

"Sam. Sammy, come on. Come for me," Dean pants, a groan slipping free as Sam's hips stutter, his breath hitches. "Want you to come just like this, on my cock."

"Dean," Sam cries out and he works himself harder, movements sloppier, before he shudders and tenses, head thrown back as he comes. He spills all over Dean's stomach and his own too. Dean grips his hips, guides Sam up and down, working him through the orgasm while chasing his own. It doesn't take long, just a handful of hard thrusts up into Sam before he comes too, hard and sudden, buried deep in Sam.

Sam pulls off him, body trembling, and collapses next to Dean, burrowing close. He's hot and sweaty, and Dean pulls him close, strokes Sam's flushed skin and seeks his mouth out for sluggish, soft kisses. "So good," he murmurs. "So incredible, Sammy."

"Yeah?" Sam asks, pressing even closer, pushing their bodies together as if he's trying to crawl into Dean, fuse them together.

"Fuck yeah," Dean says and huffs out a laugh, feeling buzzed. " _Fuck_."

Sam makes a pleased little noise, kisses Dean. Dean smoothes his hair back, twirls the strands around his fingers and smiles against Sam's mouth.

+

Dean's apartment slowly becomes cluttered with Sam's things. Clothes, books, notes from class.

And as the weeks progress, Dean picks up more hours at work, which means he has more money to spend, too. They never had much, spending money on gas and motels and supplies, but now Dean finds himself able to indulge a little. He buys a used TV and DVD player, some movies for him and Sam to watch, and new clothes, too. Before long he owns more than fits in one duffel bag, then two.

"Maybe I can move in here with you next semester," Sam suggests tentatively at the end of October. They're curled up on the couch together, tangled together, a Halloween movie on in the background.

Dean slides his hand under Sam's shirt, feels the smooth, warm skin under his palm. He slowly rubs his thumb over the small scar on Sam's side. "Maybe," he agrees, and Sam hides his face in Dean's neck, but he can feel the grin.

Dean decides to save his dignity by not telling Sam that next semester seems too far away, that he hates not having Sam with him every night. His apartment is small, but having Sam and his things there makes it feel less cramped, somehow, like a home rather than just a place to sleep.

+

The thing that worries Dean the most about Sam living in the dorms is Sam's nightmares.

He's always had them, has woken Dean up with his thrashing around and whimpering since he was a little kid. It's not really surprising. They've both seen too much, done too much, and Sam isn't the kind of person who can just lock things away and move on. Dreams seem to be one way Sam's subconsciousness deals with the things he's experienced.

Dean has dealt with them long enough to know what to do, how to comfort Sam. Holding him, carding his fingers through Sam's tangled hair, and whispering soft, soothing words to him helps, waking Sam up slowly and reassuring him that he's not alone, that he's safe. It worries Dean that Sam mostly stays in the dorms during the week, though, makes him wonder how often Sam has nightmares when Dean isn't there with him and how he works through them. 

What worries Dean even more is that Sam used to talk about his dreams after waking up, letting Dean work through them with him and make him feel better. Now, Sam talks less and less about them. He makes these soft, pained noises in his sleep until Dean manages to wake him up and then he'll just bury his face in Dean's neck, shaking and shuddering. 

They almost get into a fight during one of those nights, when Dean tries to push Sam into talking and Sam gets frustrated with him, lashing out in anger. So Dean stops trying to make him talk. He'll just hold Sam, runs his fingers through Sam's hair the way he's always done and whispers to him that he's there, that he'll take care of Sam and keep him safe. 

Most nights, Sam will fall back asleep with a hand resting on Dean's sternum, right where Dean's chest rises and falls with every breath. Dean never comments on it, but he breathes a little more deliberately, makes sure his breathing pattern is strong and steady for Sam to feel.

+

Dean is nuking some pasta from the night before when John calls, a few days shy of Thanksgiving break.

They've kept in touch mostly through texts and a couple of quick calls, John checking up on them.

"How're you?" John asks after Dean greets him.

"Good. Working and stuff. Nothing special," Dean says. 

"And Sam?" John's voice sounds a little terse. Dean knows he hasn't talked to Sam since the day Sam left, not even a text. It's funny how Sam always claimed he was the one who was different, who didn't fit in, when he and John couldn't possibly be more alike. They're the most stubborn, unrelenting people Dean has ever met and neither of them ever realized it. 

"Sam's fine," Dean says, stirring the food in the pot a couple of times. "Studying a lot, but you know what he's like."

"And you're keeping an eye on him?" John asks, and Dean swallows uncomfortably. 

"Yeah," he says, and tries hard not to think about just what he and Sam get up to these days. How close an eye he's keeping on Sam, just not in the way John wants him to. "Of course."

"Good. That's… good, Dean," John replies and Dean nods, even though John can't see him over the phone.

"What about you?" he asks. "Are you working a job right now?"

"I just finished one, right outside of Tulsa. An angry spirit, nothing complicated, but it was wreaking havoc around here," John says. "I got another lead on something further up north though. Something big, I think."

"You're being careful, though, right?" Dean prods, his stomach flipping. It makes him feel a bit like a fretting mother, but he can't help worrying. John is an amazing hunter, but for the last years he's had Sam and Dean with him, supporting him.

John snorts softly. "You don't have to worry about me, son," he says. "I might meet up with Caleb."

"Good. I'm glad," he says and then adds, "Tell me about it."

He feels a familiar pull in his stomach, a yearning, as John relays what he knows. He misses it more than he lets on sometimes. Fixing cars is fun, but it's not the same as being out there, hunting things that most people don't even know exist. Doing something worthwhile, something good.

"You just make sure you keep an eye on your brother, okay?" John stresses before they hang up- 

"Of course, sir," he says dutifully instead. Sam is safer on campus than when they were hunting, but he knows saying anything to John will only result in a lecture. And if their dad knew about them, he'd probably think the only danger to Sam out here is Dean himself. Yet, Dean knows the next time he sees Sam he's not going to act any differently, is not going to try to put an end to their relationship. He doesn't think he could, even if he wanted to.

+

Sam usually comes over Friday afternoon and stays until Monday morning. Dean sometimes has to work Saturdays, but knowing Sam is camped out in his apartment, will be there when Dean comes home, makes those days a lot easier.

Dean gave up on trying to talk Sam into going to parties, hanging out with his classmates, after a few weeks. Sam seems happy to spend his free time with Dean, and Dean isn't going to complain about it. He soaks up every moment he spends with Sam, even after all these weeks.

They go out sometimes, to bars that are a little less college-y and remind them more of the hole in the wall kind of pubs where hunters hang out. And to his own surprise, Dean actually likes staying in even more—likes watching TV with Sam, or even the times where Sam quietly works on his homework, his things strewn all over Dean's living-room floor, while Dean keeps busy playing games on Sam's laptop or getting some much needed work done around the apartment. 

His favorite part about Sam staying over are the times they spend together in bed though. Sleeping curled up together, waking Sam up with kisses, hands exploring sleep warm skin, and lazy morning sex and afternoons spent under the sheets. Those moments feel a bit like a dream, like an escape from the real world—just him and Sam and a bed and nothing bad—and Dean cherishes those times, carefully memorizes them and locks them away in his brain.

+

One of those mornings, the last Sunday before Christmas, they're lying together in bed. Sex was followed by coffee and then more sex, and Dean feels sated and lazy. Sam is resting on his stomach, sweat cooling on his back and skin still flushed, and Dean is curled around him. He's drawing sigils on Sam's naked back with the tip of his finger, carefully tracing the symbols onto his skin again and again.

"Don't think that's gonna do much," Sam mumbles after a while. 

Dean hums and kisses Sam between the shoulder blades, tastes the remains of salty sweat there. "Maybe I should get a sharpie," he suggests, and silently he thinks it's not a bad idea. 

Sam snorts. "Yeah, good idea. Lots of evil things on campus I need protection from," he says. He sounds carefree, happy.

Earlier that night, Sam had his worst nightmare yet, waking up screaming and kicking. Dean had held him for close to an hour before Sam drifted off again, had rubbed his shoulders until Sam stopped shaking and pretended not to notice the way his shoulder had gotten wet with Sam's hot, silent tears. 

"It was just a dream," he'd whispered over and over again, but a tiny, nagging voice in his head wondered if he was trying to convince Sam or himself. He's not sure if it's intuition or just his bleak outlook at life, but it had made his stomach churn.

"Yeah. Gotta keep you safe from all the co-eds that try to get into your pants," he jokes now, voice light. 

"Don't think that's something we have to worry about," Sam says around a yawn, burrowing his face more deeply into the pillow under his head. 

Dean pokes him in the side, light enough to tickle and make Sam squirm a little. "'Cause everybody think you're a monk who never has fun?" 

Sam sighs and turns around, the movement slow and languid. "I'm always hanging out with you," he says. "And people have seen us together on campus and stuff… they kinda think—well, you know." 

"Oh. Yeah, there's that, I guess." 

Sam touches Dean's shoulder, tracing his finger down his arm. "I haven't said anything. I wouldn't be sure what to say anyway." 

"Well, most people would doubt someone like you could score with someone like me, anyway," Dean replies with a small smirk. "I'm hot _and_ drive an awesome car." 

Sam huffs. "Way to make a guy feel good about himself."

"Eh, fine. You're not too bad," Dean admits and tucks Sam's hair out of his face. He feels the familiar rush of fondness he feels whenever they share moments like that, when he looks at Sam's face—those eyes that always give away how Sam feels, his cute pointy nose, that perfect mouth he's felt all over his body.

He leans in and kisses Sam, draws him closer against him. Tangled together, Sam is warm and familiar in his arms, and Dean sometimes thinks he's never going to get enough of this. Having Sam this close, _his_. And if his heart sometimes feels a little heavy because he misses the road, misses his job, it's okay, because this is better. Dean would gladly take this, take Sam, over anything else. 

And he gets this feeling sometimes, deep down, that this isn't forever. This isn't who they're supposed to be and eventually they'll be forced back onto the road, into their old life—but Dean is going to stick this out for as long as Sam needs him to.

He thinks, maybe, Sam already knows it, too.


End file.
